Hi, my name is Chris, and I’m writing this with more humility than I’ve ever known. I never thought I’d be in a position where I’d have to ask strangers for help. But here I am—because I love my wife, I love our dogs, and I’m doing everything I can to keep our little family together.
We’re stranded in Las Vegas after our RV broke down beyond repair. With the last of our savings, we managed to secure a small trailer in a 55+ mobile home park. It’s not much, but it’s ours. It’s the only roof we have over our heads. And now, we’re at risk of losing even that. I have no income coming in, and I’m struggling to keep up with the trailer payments and monthly lot rent. If we lose this, we’ll be homeless—with nowhere to go and no one to turn to.
It’s just the two of us. We have no family left in this world except for our two grown daughters, who are living their own lives. We don’t want to burden them. They’ve got their own struggles, and we’re proud of the lives they’ve built. We even have grandbabies we haven’t been able to meet yet. That part hurts more than I can say. We’d give anything to be part of their lives, to be the kind of grandparents they deserve—but right now, we’re just trying to survive.
My oldest daughter—she doesn’t know it, but I rely on her more than she could ever imagine. Just thinking about her brings tears to my eyes. She’s become my rock, the one reminder that I’m still capable of love and of being the man I once was. She humbles me as a father, and I’m lucky beyond words to have her—even if I feel like I don’t deserve her.
My wife was a nurse—a damn good one. She gave everything to her career, to helping others. But then her health began to decline. She was diagnosed with multiple medical conditions that left her disabled and unable to work. She had to give up the career she loved, and disability benefits continue to deny her. Now she needs 24-hour care, and I’m her sole caregiver.
Being the only provider—physically, emotionally, financially—has taken a toll I can barely describe. I’m exhausted. I’m overwhelmed. I’m doing everything I can to hold it together, but the truth is, I’m close to breaking. I’ve tried to find work, but it’s either not enough to survive or I’m told I’m overqualified. I had a job I truly enjoyed—building custom spray foam trailers—but the shop burned down in an accident, and the company pulled out of Las Vegas. That opportunity is gone, and we’re back at square one.
We also have two dogs who are our world. They’re not just animals to us—they’re our kids. They’ve been with us through everything—loss, heartbreak, and the few moments of peace we’ve found. They’re part of our family in every way. We’re emotionally and physically attached to them, and they’ve helped keep us going when nothing else could. I’m struggling to provide for them too, and the thought of losing them is unbearable. They deserve better, and so does my wife.
The last five years have been a storm of loss. Our home was robbed. Our storage unit was broken into. I lost my HVAC career, my sense of purpose, and nearly my life. I’ve battled depression and suicidal thoughts. I’ve attempted to end it all four times. But I’m still here—because of my wife, because of our dogs, because somewhere deep down, I still believe there’s a way forward.
The only time we’ve felt truly happy in recent years was when we were camp hosting. It gave us purpose, peace, and a way to be together. But when our RV broke down, that dream ended. We’d love to return to that life, but we need help to get there.
I’m not asking for luxury. I’m asking for a lifeline. We need help to stay housed, to cover basic living expenses, and—if possible—to get back to camp hosting. We need support to pay off our trailer and keep up with lot rent so we don’t lose the only home we have.
If you’ve ever felt lost, overwhelmed, or like the world forgot you—please know that’s where we are. But we’re still trying. I’m still trying. And if you can help us, even a little, it could mean the difference between giving up and holding on.
Thank you for reading our story. Thank you for caring. If you can’t donate, sharing this page could help us reach someone who can. We’re clinging to hope, and we’re grateful for any kindness you can offer.
—Chris